And when the poet reminded them of this truth, and spoke to them
of the demoralisation to which, by their habits, they daily subjected
many of their fellowmen; when he drew for them graphic pictures
of the slaughteryard, and of all the scenes of suffering and tyranny
that led up to it and ensued from it, they clapped their hands to
their ears, and cried out that he was a shockingly coarse person,
and quite too horribly indelicate for refined society. Because,
indeed, they cared only about a surface and outside refinement,
and not a whit for that which is inward and profound. For beauty
of being--they had neither desire nor power of reverence; all
their enthusiasm was spent over forms and words and appearances
of beauty. In them the senses were quickened, but not the heart,
nor the reason. Therefore the spirit of the Reformer was not in
them, but the spirit of the Dilettante only.

And the poet was grieved and angry with them, because every true
poet is a Reformer; and he went forth and spoke aloud in their
public places and rebuked the dwellers in that town. But except
a few curiosity hunters and some idle folks who wanted higher wages
and less work, and thought he might help them to get what they wished
for, nobody listened to him. But they went in crowds to see a conjurer,
and to hear a man who lectured on blue china, and another who made
them a long oration about intricate and obscure texts in a certain
old dramatic book. And I think that in those days, if it had not
been for the sweet and gracious song of the fairy bird which he
carried about always in his bosom, the poet would have become very
heartsick and desponding indeed. I do not quite know what it was
that the bird sang, but it was something about the certainty of
the advent of wisdom, and of the coming of the perfect day; and